


Brothers in Arms

by Marmidotte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Army, Background - Freeform, Bamf!Greg, Gen, Military affairs, Not Totally Canon, you're not alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmidotte/pseuds/Marmidotte
Summary: Ever wondered why Greg was so acceptant of John once he learned he was a soldier? This strays a bit from canon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This poked at my brain when I was meant to write more Lewis-Grimm... sorry.

DI Greg Lestrade gritted his teeth. The most recent case had involved former soldiers, some kills and some suicides, and taken a toll on John, but also on Greg. While John's file was known of Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg – though Greg had doubts about its authenticity, because in several places it did not correspond to what John had told him over a pint at the end of a complicated day –, his own file had been buried deep after all the events.

He had been wet behind the ears, so proud of being SAS, and sent directly in the fray in Northern Ireland. He was there for the Loughgall ambush, had even seen who had shot the civilian, had pushed him to the side in order to avoid another civilian death. He had been reprimanded, but was otherwise a good NCO, and it had not gone further.

Sadly, he was there for the Ballygawley bomb too. While he had not died that day – at the back of the army bus – he had lost part of his right lung, and gotten a bad case of migraines that sent him flat out of SAS only a few years after he had been admitted.

He had met his – now ex – wife during his convalescence. He knew he could not go back to the army, but law enforcement was a possibility, so he was fast tracked towards DI. A few years later, meeting Sherlock, he had realised it could easily have been him if he had not found a new goal in life, and had taken pity on the young addict.

While his military story could not compare to John's, the suicides had hit him hard, more so than the murders – for which Sherlock had relatively quickly found the culprit in the shape of a former soldier who had been struck off because of unacceptable behaviour, with each victim a witness, judge, ... – because they each could have been saved with help and treatments.

An officer on the site of the last suicide had been saying disparaging things about former soldiers, and while he saw John ready to hit him, and was not far from trying the same, they had been taken by surprise by Sherlock, who had flayed the officer alive, and called is brother to make sure the man was demoted, of all things.

Still, Greg was at the moment in one of his favourite pub, savouring a pint, and trying not to be overwhelmed by a dark mood and difficult memories. He was by himself, and wishing once again that his marriage had not gone down the drain, or that he had some friend to keep him company. He sighed, and signalled the landlord for another pint. He had arrested his elder some years ago, but made sure the kid was helped back on his feet, and last year, Killian had come to him, very proud to announce the youngster had managed to be admitted in Oxford. Killian knew him well enough, was very thankful, and would pour him into a taxi later if there was a need.

He sighed again, gaze passing over the patrons in the lightly crowded pub. He was debating going home vs. staying a bit more, when he started, his eyes going wide and his arms going up in a defensive stance. A grinning John was seated next to him with a pint of his own.

"Fucking hell, mate! Don't... don't do that!"

John's smile turned in something more concerned. "Sorry, ah, sorry, I could not help... you really were not watching out for anyone, hm?"

"Yeah, well... Sherlock told you about my wife, and it's not like I have that many friends." Greg did allow a bit of bitterness in his voice. He was not jealous of John, not because of the army, nor because of Sherlock, but he was tired.

"Ah. Yes. But ... you could have asked me... Sherlock... even Mycroft?" John was probing him delicately.

"That... would have gone well. 'Yeah, hello mister Holmes, I need someone to talk about my fee-lings!' - 'Fey-links? What are those, pray tell?'"

John grinned at the silly imitation of Mycroft. "You know that when Sherlock asked for the demotion, Mycroft did it without expecting something in return, just because he had insulted two veterans, right?"

"What? But Sherlock never w... you mean me???" Greg was at loss to understand. His brow knitted. "Wait a minute, how do you even know... Mycroft." He sighed. There was no privacy at all with the Holmes brothers on his case.

"Hm. No, mainly the way you held yourself and you handled your weapon at Baskerville. Then Mycroft, and then Sherlock did deduce a few things about you, but since you never ever talk about it, he was loath to speak, but heavily suggested that I come have a pint with you." John took a gulp of his own pint.

"Sherlock, loath to speak. God, it's going to rain toads tomorrow." That got him a grin from John.

"I know it's not easy to talk about it, but if you want... well, you listened to my complaints often enough, you know how it works." John was still smiling, but with a serious look focused on him.

"Yeah. Well. It's nothing as ... heroic as you, mind you." Greg rubbed at the back of his head. "It could have been me, the suicides. I was in a bad way, mentally, when they kicked me out for medical reasons. I was just lucky to find an copper who talked me out of it and suggested I try for DI. Well, DS, first, but..." Greg shook his head.

"Can I... I mean, if you don't want to, but... what happened? Mycroft mentioned the IRA, and considering your age it would have been right in the epoch of the Troubles and such, but even his nibs does not know more, your file is redacted." John was smiling slightly, no doubt happy someone else had managed to annoy Mycroft.

Greg took a few swallows of his pint, and a deep breath. "I was at the Loughgall ambush*."

John's eyes went round and his breathing hitched. "Bloody hell, Greg!"

Looking all around himself first, and turning his back to the windows, he went on. "Yeah, well. I saw one of the officers take a shot at a civilian. I careened into him, and that was enough delay for us to be going back to the base before he could do it again. I was on my way to promotion, no other problem in my file, and got a written reprimand for what I'd done. But. There were witnesses, amongst us and amongst the passerby. It went back and forth for a while, the officer was kicked out of army, I was sworn to secrecy, and my file was buried deep."

"I was also suddenly asked for special missions. Like you know exactly what I mean, aye? And did a few things. Part of the higher levels were really trying to get peace in Northern Ireland, you know. And then, I had free time every few months. I went to visit the country I was trying to help. And I was on my way back from Ballygawley** that fateful day." Greg's voice was laced with bitterness.

"Oh, damn. You were not in the bus, though? You would have had a whole different kind of medical problems... or... wait. You were at the back?" John ever the Doctor was deducing him medically.

Greg stretched his arms. "Yeah. Some days, I wonder if it had not been better if I had been in the front. I was launched in the air, straight into the metal of the rear of the bus and then into a tree. My right lung was pierced by my ribs that also shattered at the violence of the impact. They had to remove part of it. I also got damage at my cranium. Hence the headaches. It is manageable, but not enough for the s... the army."

John drank the last of his pint, immediately ordering a new one. "Fuck. No wonder you reacted as badly as me at the idiot's little discourse. Why did you not tell me? I'm not angry, just... I've been through something of the same, so I think I can help, and you've been kind and accepting from the moment you learned I was invalidated home."

Greg's head went down. "Well, you know... that is... I'm nowhere near your level... and... well..." he was unusually hesitant.

John frowned. "Yeah, no, ok. This is the last time you put yourself down. You're a more than decent copper, even Sherlock agrees on this, you're patient, you managed to save several people," he shrugged in the direction of the landlord, "and you're far from shabby with weapons and close combat – don't try to deny it, I've seen you arresting aggressive suspects."

Greg, who had begun raising his hand lowered it back to the bar. "Ah."

John smile came back. "So, I've got a unique deal for you, and you're not allowed to refuse."

Greg look was wary, but curious. "All... right?"

John went on. "From next week on, you come with me. There's a few of us ex-army, we don't all come from the same place, but we all got an injury that got us out of the army before we wanted to. We meet once a week, to talk, spar, have lunch, whatever. It took me a while to realise I did not have to do it on my own, now it's your turn."

Greg's first reaction was one of shame, but John had apparently no intention of letting him back out of this. "I... ok. Why not. I'll try."

John's smile went incandescent. "Good."

A baritone voice sounded from behind him. "Are you done with mushy feelings?"

Greg almost hit the man before his brain caught up "Bloody hell, Sherlock, not you too!!!"

Sherlock's grin was devilish and unrepentant. "Let's go, John." he went right out.

John finished his pint, left a few quids on the bar, and followed Sherlock, shaking his head. "Duty calls... see you."

Greg was chuckling. "See you." He went through the same movements as John, saluting the landlord, and walked home in the night in a far better mood that he had arrived, albeit still a bit surprised by the events of the evening.

* * *

* A 36 men SAS unit killed an IRA unit that had attacked the village's Royal Ulster Constabulary base, working on detailed intelligence.

** IRA members remotely detonated a roadside bomb containing 200 pounds of Semtex when an unmarked 52-seater bus passed by. It was transporting 36 soldiers. 8 were killed.


End file.
